


scheherazade

by soldier-dean (badaltin)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Murder, Murder Husbands, Serial Killer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:14:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5767411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badaltin/pseuds/soldier-dean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Who was it this time?" Dean asks, his voice a ship breaking through the icy silence.</p><p>Cas's pupils are blown, as they always are with the rush of adrenaline he gets. "I don't know," he admits. His hands, which usually tremble in the quiet of things, are startlingly still. "I don't know," he repeats. "I don't know. I don't know."</p><p>Dean looks through the windowpane to the car waiting outside their house. "Is the body in the trunk?" </p><p>Cas doesn't say anything. Cas doesn't need to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	scheherazade

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ migrantdean

And then there is that time among countless others when Dean pulls himself out of bed and dresses himself in clothes cooled by the night. It is late, and something is nagging at the back of his mind, preventing him from sleeping. 

Sometimes he forgets that he's a man. Sometimes he forgets that he needs things like sleep, and gentleness, and love. Sometimes he forgets.

He steps out of the darkened room into the light living space, and isn't surprised by the rust-colored streaks lining the floor like train tracks. They don't end when he walks into the bathroom, only continue up the pale body of Cas, seeming to leak from his eyes when the origin is his hands.

"Oh, Cas," Dean breathes, his bones aching like how the wind howls on a bad night. The fluorescent light above casts the room in sharp contrast, red seeping through cotton, purple hanging as a crescent moon beneath eyelids, green meeting black.

The night shifts color, the world tilting opposite of its axis all the while. The sky outside turns to the same fiery orange as the color of the soap Cas uses to try and scrub the blood away.

"Who was it this time?" Dean asks, his voice a ship breaking through the icy silence.

Cas's pupils are blown, as they always are with the rush of adrenaline he gets. "I don't know," he admits. His hands, which usually tremble in the quiet of things, are startlingly still. "I don't know," he repeats. "I don't know. I don't know."

Dean looks through the windowpane to the car waiting outside their house. "Is the body in the trunk?" 

Cas doesn't say anything. Cas doesn't need to.

Dean trusts that the other man can clean himself up; they've been through this song enough that Dean wonders if he should just keep the carpet rolled up so they can dance whenever they feel the need to. He opens the door into the early morning hours and puts the key in the ignition. The car starts beneath his feet, and he feels it breathing with him, a deep groaning sigh as it settles in for another trek.

The property is vast. Dean drives out to the dog house, grabs the spotted one named Otis, and continues driving to where the forest starts. He pets the dog, nice and easy, and slits its neck with the hatchet he keeps near the shed. After the blood's stopped flowing, he grabs the shovel from the trunk. If the cops ever come near the land, they'll dig up Otis's body and think they've found a false positive. They shouldn't have to look deeper than that.

Love ruined him, he thinks. Nothing could bring him back, for Cas's winding love has buried itself deep into Dean's chest and taken root. Nothing could bring him back; he doesn't want to be brought back.

The rhythm of the digging sets Dean at ease. He should be used to this, he thinks, he should be sick and tired of cleaning up after Cas's messes. But he never will.


End file.
